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The grid had not opened yet. This was a dream chasing through the stars. Anonymous in the year 2500 “Mr. Cuin, do you want to die?" The young GP in his lab coat smiled a sunny smile. Of course, it was a rhetorical question. Cuin was not amused but lent his ear to the explanations of his disease. No sugar, plenty of exercises, low carb, and above all, one magic pill. Metformine HCL Aurobindo, 850 milligrams per day. THAT MORNING FOR THE first time, Cuin drank his black coffee with no sugar. He decided there were a time and a place for a man to quit the sweetness in his life, and because he had the early stages of Diabetes type II, sugar was a no-go. His doctor had told him the day before yesterday. Mister Cuin, The Black Justien, stood at the rear end of his condo in Westlake's hills, a small town in the West. Overlooking his options, he was not pleased. On average, the planet sucked, his life sucked, and there was not much he could or would do about it. Life had long ago defeated him. Sure, he had his career cut out for him at age sixty, mostly contracts from the government, a small percentage from big businesses, and a few private citizens. But being an assassin, a hired help to kill people who had fucked off others, was a profession he didn’t particularly like. Oh, no scruples about the job itself. He had passed all that. But getting older, he felt time flowing through his fingers at a rapid pace and the satisfaction of a job well-done with it. There was no joy in what he practiced, nor was he proud or even content with his daily routine. He picked his victims at random; the only pleasant factor was that he had to choose his victim, getting his assignments either by postal mail or via an encrypted message through the Internet. Because of his work's special nature, the pay was excellent, so it wasn’t like he had to go to the office every day. His average number of cases was three or four a year; the demand surpluses the execution. He had his work for another five years to come; as an entrepreneur, that was a thing of beauty. But he long since forgot the meaning of the word. He heard the wind waves above the water at his home at 33 Drive Road and sipped from his brew. With half an ear, he listened to the radio airing: Nickel Creek, a band from the past, something that survived the times. His blue dressing gown hanging open revealed a strong, reasonably athletic body with abs not bad for a person his age. He was too lazy to go to the gym, but he did work out in his house on the home trainer in his study. And he jogged three times a week, building up to 3 miles per day. He was fit and in good shape—a plus in his profession. He preferred his small black gun, but he also had used riffles in the past; knives were not his favorite, too messy, and too personal. Any other tool would be inappropriate, although he was a decent enough martial-art-and-boxing champ. He could kill by only using his hands. But he rarely did. He was a killer, not a murderer. It gave him no pleasure to kill another human being. It merely didn’t bother him, and it paid the bills. For 35 years now, he was in the top league of the shady business, and he was good at it. People would find him to get the dirty work done. Cuin The Black Justien, nickname The Black, profession Assassin. His business card said Self-employed. He was worth six zero’s a year easily. And that was only him being not greedy. He liked money; it could give him the lifestyle he wanted, buy him the black shiny Mercedes AMG GT Roadster, the latest edition he loved, and just prevent him from utter boredom. No hobbies, no wife or kids, and no love life to mention other than the occasional visit to a damned good and reliable hooker he saw once a month. Daphne was a friend for over 25 years now. He wouldn’t want to have it any other way. His visits to her small apartment in the city were the only decent contact with another human being he had. It kept him alive. Apart from her nice figure, her killer smile, and a master’s degree in sexual fantasies and satisfaction, she also was a decent enough chess player and a funny girl of 45 years old. What was there not to like. At another time, he would have probably married her and lived happily ever after. But as it was, he didn’t do happy and grew to be a cynic in old age. A grumpy old hipster from another era, with a sophisticated beard, hair shoulder-length, sometimes in a bun. He was somewhat of a dandy. He dressed well. No high fashion but his impeccable taste in practical gentlemen’s clothing. With a good eye for what was in vogue at the time. He even spoke a little bit of French. Artifact of a lover’s meet in Paris years ago. So, he draped his wardrobe for the day on the bed, matching shoes and tie, and he took a shower. January 2nd was about to start. IT WAS THE YEAR 2541. Covid-19 had decimated the earth’s population by one-third four hundred fifteen years ago. Now, four billion people lived their dire lives hidden behind grim faces and frayed curtains. In the cities on the West and East coast, adults, children, and the elderly learned not to trust each other and had little or no contact. Neighbors hurried back into their isolated bunkers without greeting or talking. The dark streets were empty except for the wicked and the worn-out, the party-goers, and the suicides. It was solemn and silent in The Milky Way. And very cold! The Sun came up every day, but at half speed as if she had lost touch with the Earth. The immediate planets nearby, like Saturn and Venus, and Mars, are farther away than ever. The Government had shut down resources for research till further notice. Only a small colony on the Moon had survived the years with an estimated population of three hundred souls. Nobody knew exactly what had become of those spacelings, and frankly, they were forgotten because nobody cared. Moon cycles lasted ten days instead of one month as in earlier centuries. At one point, the disturbing relationship with the Sun had caused ripples in Moon’s orbit and the weather patterns, and the climate changed dramatically to the point of no return. Summers were hot with drought as a recurrent consequence; Autumns were full of rain and thunder and hail, the hurricane season of civilization; Spring was still a hopeful time but lasted only 30 days before a change of season again; Winter was frigid and bitter, 25 degrees Celcius below zero no longer an exception. The world had become an ugly realm. 08:15 hrs; beach waves countered the lands in their attempts to hit the shores. Seagulls as big as cats and as little as bats wove their patterns in the blue hazy sky. It was Wolf Moon, and she was visible that evening into the night and morning. **** On the other side of the country, a man named Truce, The Unwell of Everton, was planning his next act. Little did the two of them know their lives would be intertwined for eternity to come. They had never met before, nor would they under normal circumstances, but the times were not in favor of Thruce, a small-time swindler who did his best to con people off their money, jewelry, and goods. He would find vulnerable older women online and pamper them, making them believe he was the answer to their prayers, while in the meantime, he scammed them of their cash. Thruce was a 55-year-old has-been who liked his expensive lifestyle and found a way to sustain that. He also was a con artist with a mission in life. He was a comic and joked a lot. His puns were famous and notorious in the rich and famous circles where they knew him by one of his many aliases, Baron of Everton. A broker who hit the motherload back in the days when the stock market guaranteed a wealthy lifestyle. When that bubble broke, he was gone, leaving many people badly hurt behind and packing his affairs elsewhere. The main reason he got away with so many things was that he was genuinely funny. He was quick and witty, and his mind was sharp as a razor. He showed people a mirror to look into; made them consciously aware of their shortcomings while robbing them blind. He was so good in what he did that the branded women never were able to stay mad at him, let alone alarm the police to investigate. He made them laugh, made them feel alive, and managed to let them forget their age and circumstances. They wanted to be around him, adored his dirty streaks, and just let him get away with murder. With a bad stroke of luck, Thruce, the Unwell of Everton, didn’t stay unnoticed by the land's government. The Intelligent Service NNP had discovered his whereabouts a long time ago and kept records of his activities. When the new governor of his state was elected, the time was ripe to stop his con-artistry. They ushered a death sentence on his head, a modern-day fatwa in the form of an assignment to their number one assassin, Cuin The Black Justine. Thruce, Baron of Everton, had to vanish before making people more aware of society's status and situation; before citizens would revolt against the government which was all evil, to begin with. Thruce, the funny swindler had to die! WC:1647 |
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